


people like us

by Highsmith (quimtessence)



Category: Original Work, Yellow Flicker Beat - Lorde (Song)
Genre: Character Study, Female Anti-Hero, Gen, Inspired by Music, Jukebox 2019, Royalty, Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-07 16:42:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18877114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/pseuds/Highsmith
Summary: The princess is not a hero.Her guard is not her conscience.This is not the morality tale you were looking for.





	people like us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lea_hazel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lea_hazel/gifts).



> Title from "The World Is Not Enough" by Garbage.

Shadows come in many forms. Katja's is an annoying one.

"Are you quite done?" The tone might not exactly befit a princess, but the sentiment is warranted.

"Reminding you to behave? Never."

The _reminder_ is the _clack clack clack_ of footsteps on the castle's flagstones echoing off its walls.

They are in the East Wing, standing among dust-ridden upholstery and under the watch of lit torches whose wooden staves end in pointed bases, sharp and menacing-looking. Despite the late hour, they are alone, seemingly by design. The East Wing houses the least used library the castle possesses, probably also by design, as it is also where Katja's personal quarters reside.

Her staff has grown accustomed to this verbal sparring, much to Katja's chagrin. And annoyance. "Quite," she says. Brisk. Pointed. Completely disregarded.

"I'm simply looking out for you. Which, incidentally, happens to be the reason I'm employed in this fine establishment."

Katja huffs. "Now you're just approaching treason," she states matter-of-factly.

Predictably, Zelda is unfazed. "That'll make a nice change."

"Right. Well, I'll be in the library, reading boring treaties devised by incredibly boring people I'm loath to admit are my direct ancestors."

"And I'll be prowling the corridor outside the library, doing the work I'm employed to perform."

"Fantastic!"

*

Words. Sharp and clever and loud and brutal. Words on pages and in people's mouths. Words meant to be read. Words to which one has to listen.

And beyond that?

Be a princess.

Handle stare affairs.

Try not to die before your twentieth birthday in order to inherit the throne.

All fine goals for which to strive.

Idly, she wonders whether she could die from a dust mite allergy. The ultimate insult, surely.

*

Only seven months to go. Seven months of actively trying not to get killed while handling matters of state importance. Which currently consist of publicly listening to complaints from the mouths of the populace. Words truly fail.

The voices all seem to jumble together once the sun rises over the yardarm. Slipping into a daze is inadvisable should something of any actual importance be uttered without an adequate reaction from her swiftly following, but Katja can hardly be the only one in awe at the pettiness of some of the concerns being brought to her attention.

Land disputes.

Breach of promise to marry.

Witnessing ordeals, preferably by battle, as by fire tends to result in several upset stomachs, including her own.

Behind her and to her right, Zelda is in a parade rest, seemingly her preferred stance during common pleas.

It's unclear whether all mercenaries take the same approach to their work, but it seems to be Zelda's preferred method, and no one in the castle has yet had the guts to question it to her face, as far as Katja knows. And she should know.

Do shadows get a shadow of their own?

The smooth silver scar across the length of Katja's neck doesn't prickle when it's too warm or too cold or too anything. It's a reminder which doesn't need to be. Everything is a reminder which doesn't need to be.

She listens as another citizen speaks, her joins stiff, the words burning holes she almost can't see. She shivers.

*

When it comes, it's from a likely source, though no less shocking for it. A rebellion staged by unruly smaller factions coming together to address the princess issue once and for all.

When it comes, it's from the pointed end of an arrow shot through a crossbow. The blood bubbles up like a stack of overflowing rubies. Her ragged breaths crack like a young fire before it gets to a blaze.

She doesn't think _selfish desires_ until later on, when she can actually think again, but it's true nonetheless. Selfish desires, somebody else's. They would always lead to her downfall, should she let them.

She resumes listening to common pleas the day her fever breaks, a blood-orange sun descending outside the west-facing windows. Zelda is nowhere to be seen for the entirety of the day. When she shows, Katja has already dismissed her entire staff. Her bedchambers are too warm, but there's a frost inside her that's not yet started to fade. No room will ever be too warm now.

"I demand an audience," Zelda says by way of a greeting. Stranger words have rarely been uttered in the intimacy of Katja's chambers before, but she allows it.

The silence is hot vapour and steamed repression.

"You may speak," she says. It's meant to be encouraging, as far as these things go. She is a vessel, after all, and she will listen.

"What are you _doing_?" Zelda asks passionately. There's more fire in her eyes than Katja's seen there before, but it hardly warms her, either of them.

It's unclear whether she expects a genuine answer. Katja has an inkling she would neither enjoy nor comprehend any response approaching genuine should one be thrown her way. Not yet, and maybe not ever.

"What do you believe I'm doing?"

Silence.

"Speak up. I know you have a theory you're proud of. I know you believe you've got it all figured out and this is a pretext, merely confirmation of what you think you _know_. Speak up!"

"What _was_ that? You almost died!"

" _Almost_ being the operative word here."

"I'd rather say the operative word here is _died_. Which you almost did. This point cannot be emphasised enough, by the way."

Her seat is not comfortable. There's a chill coming from the window behind her. Katja doesn't inch away from it.

"That's fair."

Livid would be an understatement in describing how Zelda looks the following moment. "Fair? Fair?! There's nothing fair here."

"Isn't there? I think it's been beyond fair," Katja says levelly.

"How is anything that's happened here fair? How exactly is that a way to describe your situation?"

"I'm hardly immune to death. I'm hardly above it all." Katja focuses on an invisible spot somewhere over Zelda's left shoulder.

"I never thought you were." Suddenly, she sounds tired.

"Maybe you did. Maybe a part of you believed there's blue blood running through my veins. Frost and sky feeding my heart." If that were the case, they wouldn't be running out of princesses. If that were the case, she wouldn't be there to begin with.

Katja sighs. She is weary. She is tired, too. Maybe even exhausted.

"I'm not the god you think I am. I'm a footman at best." It's a hard admission to make out loud.

Zelda scoffs. "I find that hard to believe."

"What is? Hard to believe, I mean."

For only an instant, Zelda hesitates. "That I'm here to protect a footman from multiple assassination attempts," she says at last. "With all due respect—"

"Hardly _due respect_..." Katja mutters.

"—but you're an even bigger idiot than I initially thought you to be."

"Am I now?" Amused.

"Yes!" Again exasperated and livid-looking, for only a few moments before the tiredness returns.

Both shoulders back, spine stretched straight, Katja asks, "Then what could be said of you, then, huh?"

"You think I'm weak for giving a shit." Not a question. A matter of incontrovertible fact.

The implication— _give a shit **about you**_ —is easy to ignore.

"I think your insides are copper." Zelda blinks, obviously confused. Katja says, "Soft. Malleable. Willing and able to withstand so very much before inevitably _rupturing_." She sighs. "I can't order you what to believe. But I _can_ hold you to your vows, which chiefly revolve around not letting some arsehole with a crossbow cut down my lineage in the next seven months. You literally have _one job_ , so fucking do it."

The words are not soft.

The consonants rub together harshly, no room for the vowels. Her mouth is dry. It would hardly cut deeper to have Katja yell them out. Instead, her sentences quiet down until only the turbulent fricatives stand out.

Yes, as the sky is blue is it a certainty that Zelda would prefer her yelling. It's in the tightness at the corner of her eyes. Katja is not here to be soft. If that were the case she'd have been dead a long time ago. It's pointless telling Zelda so in so many words. Katja has made her point fairly plain already.

Looking over Zelda's right shoulder she says, "You are dismissed."

*

Seven months is not a very long time, it turns out.

The coronation is a success.

All Katja has to do is _listen_.

**Author's Note:**

> ETA June 27th 2019: I [tumble](https://rhubarbdreams.tumblr.com) again. If you wanna chat or whatever. I'm Highsmith#6255 on Discord, too.


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